Spy Story (10 page)

‘There's nothing,' I said. ‘You're wasting your time.'

‘Probably,' agreed Stok.

‘Ready,' called the voice from the next room.

‘Wait a minute,' I said as I realized what they were going to do. ‘I can explain about that – this flat belonged to a bookie. There's nothing in there now. Nothing at all.'

I pushed Stok aside to get to the next room. His two friends had fixed our Birmingham carpet upon the wall. It covered the wall safe upon which they had affixed six small charges. They triggered them as I got to the doorway. The carpet billowed into a great spinnaker before I heard the muffled bang. There was a rush of hot cordite-smelling air that hammered me backwards.

‘Empty,' said the bearded one; already he was throwing his odds and ends back into the metal case.

Stok looked at me and blew his nose. The other two hurried out through the front door but Stok delayed a moment. He raised a hand as if he was about to offer an apology or an explanation. But words failed him; he let the hand drop to his side, turned, and hurried out after his friends.

There was the sound of a scuffle as Frazer met the Russians on the stairs. But Frazer was no more of a match for them than I had been, and he came through the door dabbing at his nose with a blood-spotted handkerchief. There was a Special Branch man with him: a new kid who insisted upon showing me his card before photographing the damage.

Well, it had to be the Russians, I thought. There was something inimitable in it. Just like the business of forcing us off the road and then waiting in The Bonnet to show us who they were. Just like the intelligence trawlers that followed
NATO
ships, and the big Soviet Fleets that harassed us at sea. It was all part of the demonstration of their resources and their knowledge, an attempt to bully opponents into ill-considered action.

It was typical too that the security Colonel had arrived separately, taking no chances of being in the same car with the house-breaking tools and explosives. And that half-hearted gesture of regret – tough bastards, and I didn't like it. I mean, you go for a dip in the municipal baths, and you don't expect to catch sight of a shark fin.

They had all gone by the time Marjorie returned. At first she didn't look through the bedroom door, to where the previous tenant's safe had its door dangling and its lock shredded into wire wool. Or at paper wrappings from the explosive charges or the twists of wire and dry batteries. And she didn't see the thick layer of old plaster that covered the bed and my suit and her dressing table. Or the carpet with its circular burn in the middle.

She just saw me picking up the fragments of the china tea service her mother had given her and Jack for their wedding anniversary.

‘I told you about the old man with the twisted hip,' said Marjorie.

‘What!' I said.

‘Doing exercises. You'll do the same. You see! You'll be in the Emergency Ward with him: you're too old for press-ups.'

I tossed the pieces of china onto the tray with the broken teapot.

‘Well, if it wasn't exercises,' said Marjorie, ‘what's happened?'

‘A Colonel from the Russian embassy, and an explosives man, and a driver with gold teeth and a beard. And then there was the Navy and Special Branch taking photos.'

She stared at me, trying to see if I was joking. ‘Doing what?' she asked guardedly. She sniffed the burnt air and looked around the room.

‘With a cast like that,' I said, ‘who needs a plot?'

Line reject:
to miss a move. Wargamers must remember that fuel, fatigue and all logistic support will continue to be expended during such a move. Continuous instructions (air patrols etc.) will be continued and naval units will continue on course unless halted by separate and specific instruction. Therefore, think twice before rejecting.

GLOSSARY
. ‘
NOTES FOR WARGAMERS
'.
STUDIES CENTRE
.
LONDON

There's a large piece of plush Campden Hill landscape trapped on the wrong side of Holland Park Avenue. That's where the Foxwells live. Past the police station there's a street of crumbling Victorian villas that West Indian tenants have painted pistachio green, cherry red and raspberry pink. See it in daylight and it's a gargantuan banana split, with a side-order of dented cars.

On the corner there's a mews pub: topless dancers Friday, Irish riots Saturday, on Sunday morning, advertising men and a sports car club. Alongside the pub there is the mews. At the mews's far end a gate opens onto the entirely unexpected house and garden that Foxwells have owned for three generations.

It was hard to believe that this was central London. The trees were bare, and sapless roses hung their shrunken heads. A hundred yards up the drive there was a large house just visible in the winter gloom. In front of it, well clear of the London planes, the gardener was burning the last of the fallen leaves. He raked the fire with great apprehension, as a man might goad a small dragon. A billow of smoke emerged and fierce embers crackled and glowed red.

‘Evening, sir.'

‘Evening, Tom. Will it rain?' I went round and opened the car door for Marjorie. She knew how to operate it for herself, but when she had her hair up she liked to be treated like an elderly invalid.

‘There's snow up there,' said Tom. ‘Make sure your anti-freeze is in.'

‘I forgot to drain it out last year,' I said. Feeling neglected, Marjorie put her hands in her pockets and shivered.

‘That's cruel,' said Tom. ‘She'll rust.'

Ferdy's house sits on two acres of prime London building land. It makes the apples he grows in the orchard an expensive delicacy, but Ferdy is like that.

There were cars already there: Ferdy's Renault, a Bentley and an amazing vintage job: bright yellow, perhaps too ostentatious for Al Capone but certainly big enough. I parked my Mini Clubman next to it.

I hesitated for a moment before ringing the bell. These intimate little dinner parties of the Foxwells were planned with the special sort of skill that his wife gave to everything she did. Committees devoted to musical charities, societies for new music and, according to Ferdy, a trust that restored old organs. But in spite of such gags, Ferdy gave some of his time and money to the same charities. I knew that dinner would be followed by a short recital by some young singer or musician. I knew too that the performance would be Mozart, Schubert, Beethoven or Bach, because Ferdy had vowed never again to have me at one of the evenings the Foxwells dedicated to twentieth-century music. It was a disbarment for which I was eternally thankful. I guessed that the other guests that I saw at these dinners had similarly disgraced themselves by contributing to the discord.

Ferdy and Teresa were in deadly earnest about these musical soirées: they'd put me under real pressure to get me into my second-hand dinner suit. It made me look like a band leader waiting for a return of the nineteen thirties, but twice I'd gone along wearing my dark grey suit, and Teresa had told a mutual friend that I was a man delivering something from Ferdy's office – and she'd felt obliged to ask me to stay – democracy in action. I mean, I like the Foxwells, but everyone has their funny little ways. Right?

I pressed the bell.

Marjorie liked the house. She had an idea that one day, when we grew up, we'd be living in plastic and hardboard scaled-down versions of it. She stroked the door. It was set into an elaborate sea-shell canopy. On each side of it there was a lighted coach lamp. The burning leaves scented the night air. The Notting Hill traffic was no more than a soft purr. I knew that Marjorie was storing this moment in her memories. I leaned close and kissed her. She clutched my arm.

The door opened. I saw Ferdy, and behind him his wife Teresa. Out spilled the tinkles of music, laughter, and ice-cubes colliding with Waterford glass. It had everything, that house: suits of armour, stags' heads and gloomy portraits. And servants with lowered eyes who remembered which guests had hats and umbrellas.

There is a particular type of tranquil beauty that belongs to the very very rich. Teresa Foxwell had grown-up children, was on the wrong side of forty and gathering speed, but she still had the same melancholy beauty that had kept her photo in the society columns since she was a deb. She wore a long yellow and orange dress of marbled satin. I heard Marjorie's sharp intake of breath. Teresa knew how to spend money, there was no doubt of that.

Ferdy took my coat and handed it to someone off-stage.

Teresa took Marjorie's arm and walked her off. She must have seen the storm warnings.

‘I'm so glad you're here,' said Ferdy.

‘Yes …' I said. ‘Well … good.'

‘You left early and there was a bit of a scene right after.' He turned to a servant who was standing motionless with a tray of champagne. ‘Put the tray on the hall stand,' said Ferdy.

‘A tray of champagne,' I said. ‘Now that's what I call hospitality.'

Ferdy picked up two glasses and pushed one upon me. ‘Schlegel was rude,' said Ferdy. ‘Damned rude.'

I took the top off my champagne. I could see I was going to need it. ‘What happened?' I said.

And out it came: all the anxieties and resentments that Ferdy had been storing for goodness knows how long hit me in one long gabble of plaintive bewilderment.

‘He doesn't have to come over the speaker with it, does he?'

‘No,' I said. ‘But perhaps you'd better take it from the beginning.'

‘Schlegel came through on the yellow phone, as soon as I put those MADs into the Kara. Did I mean the Barents, kid. No, Kara, I said. You know where the Kara is, Ferdy kid, he says. You know where the Kara is.'

Ferdy sipped some of his champagne, smiled, and as he continued slipped into his devastating impression of Schlegel's accent. ‘And those Mallow flying boats – you're making crushed ice out there, sweetheart, that's all you're doing – check those ice-limits, baby, and take another look at the Kara. Will you do that for me.'

Again Ferdy sipped his drink, by which time I'd almost drained mine. Ferdy said, ‘I didn't reply. Schlegel came through on the loudspeaker, shouting, Are you reading me, Foxwell kid, because if you're giving me that old time limey high-hat treatment I'll move your tail out of that chair so fast your tootsies won't touch the ground, got me.'

I said, ‘Schlegel was probably getting a bad time from those
CINCLANT
admirals.'

Ferdy putting those huge flying boats down on the ice was probably what was really worrying Schlegel. If the big computer showed them as landing safely, a lot of the Arctic strategy would have to be rethought, but meanwhile, Ferdy might wipe the floor with Schlegel's two VIPs.

‘What would you have done?' asked Ferdy.

‘Kicked him in the crutch, Ferdy.'

‘Zap! Pow! Wallop!' he said doubtfully. ‘Yes, look here, drink up.' He took a glass of champagne off the hall stand and handed it to me.

‘Good health, Ferdy.'

‘Cheers. No, the little swine was angry because we got a contact. And because he was being such a little bastard I put three atomic depth charges in a tripod off the coast of Novaya Zemlya. I wiped out two subs. Schlegel was so angry that he tore the print-out off the machine and stalked out of the Control Room without saying goodnight.' Ferdy spilled some of his drink without noticing. I realized he was a bit drunk.

‘What will happen now, Ferdy?'

‘There you are. I'm dashed if I know. I'm expecting the little swine any minute.' He leaned over to pat the dachshund. ‘Good Boudin! There's a good little chap.' But the dog backed under the hall stand, baring its teeth, and Ferdy almost overbalanced.

‘Here?'

‘Well, what was I supposed to do – run after him and cancel the invitation?' He spilled some champagne on his hand and kissed away the dribbles from it.

‘Stand by for flying glass.'

‘Little swine.' He held the brimming glass at chest height and lowered his head to it. He was like a great untidy bear and had all the clumsy strength of that much maligned creature.

‘What were Blue Suite doing: two subs close together like that?'

Ferdy gave a knowing smile. He wiped his mouth with a black silk handkerchief from his top pocket. ‘Schlegel buttering up the admirals. Telling them how to win the game.'

‘Do yourself a favour, Ferdy. What happened today was just Blue Suite at their most typically inept. It wasn't Schlegel. If he decides to cheat on you, he's not going to muff it like that.'

‘Machine failure, then?' said Ferdy. He allowed himself a grin.

‘That's about it, Ferdy.' I drank some more champagne. Machine failure was our way of describing any of the more stupid sort of human errors. Ferdy shrugged and raised a hand to usher me into the drawing-room. As I passed him he touched my arm to halt me. ‘I've lost that damned Northern Fleet battle order.'

‘So what? You can get another.'

‘I think Schlegel stole it. I know he came into Red Ops while I was at lunch.'

‘He gets his own copy. He's only to ask for a dozen if he wants more.'

‘I knew I shouldn't have mentioned it.' He patted his hair, then he picked up his drink and swallowed the whole of it before putting the glass down.

‘I don't get it,' I said.

‘Boudin, Boudin.' He crouched down and called the dachshund but it still didn't come to him. ‘Don't you see that it's just a devious way of getting me kicked out?' His voice came from under the hall stand.

‘By inventing some sort of security stunt?'

‘Well, it would work, wouldn't it?' He spat out the words and I knew that he'd not completely eliminated me from the conspiracy. Perhaps telling me was only his way of complaining to Schlegel.

‘Life's too short, Ferdy. Schlegel's a bastard, you know that. If he wanted to get rid of you he'd just have you in the office, and give it to you right between the eyes.'